Through the years,
you begin to look, to read.
You live a little and die tiny deaths.
You make some sense. You make sense not.
You cut yourself with tiny slivers of glass,
and then look up at the world through them.
Sometimes, they're tinged pink.
And then. You go. The final time and for all.
Like it that you don't try very hard to come inside-out and clear and keep it abstract.
ReplyDeleteThanks.
ReplyDeleteKeep reading! :)